Page 44 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
Miss Vale’s voice faltered, then dropped to a whisper. “I do not think that was enough revenge for her. I believe she wanted him dead.”
“You accompanied Mrs Pinnock to Mrs Bridges’ home,” James pressed, reluctant to allow her trail off into contemplative silence. “Did you see her take the wolfsbane?”
“No,” Miss Vale shook her head. “Though Mrs Bridges took me outside to show me her roses, leaving Mrs Pinnock alone in the kitchen. I cannot say for certain, but if she stole it, it must have been then.”
“And did you see her give Sir Ambrose the bottle of brandy?” he asked, his voice sterner than he would have liked.
Again, Miss Vale shook her head. Her complexion had turned deathly pale and James was certain that she was on the verge of tears. He felt a brute for pushing her so, but needs must.
“Think,” he urged her.
“She was often alone with Mr Henderson,” Miss Vale said at last. “Perhaps she persuaded him to bring the bottle to Sir Ambrose’s cottage then?”
James sat back, mulling over her words. It all tied in neatly with Henderson’s confession—though the lad had been careful to leave out any suggestion of his involvement in the murder. Confessing to the lesser crime of bribery was a clever enough strategy, especially for a boy who did not give the appearance of being overly bright.
Still, he thought, perhaps even dullards could grow cunning when their necks were in danger.
“What will you do next?” Miss Vale’s voice broke through his thoughts, thin with apprehension.
“I’ll tell Lord Crabb, the magistrate, and ask what he wishes to do,” James said. He leaned forward, his tone urgent. “But I beg you, keep our conversation between us. If Mrs Pinnock suspects we suspect her, she may bolt.”
“There’s nowhere to bolt,” Miss Vale replied with a wry laugh. “There’s not a stagecoach to be had till tomorrow—and that’s at best.”
“Keep her here,” James urged, rising to his feet. Then, recalling the flicker of fear in her voice earlier, he softened. “And don’t worry about your future, Miss Vale. I’ll see that you’re not left destitute.”
Her lips parted as if to reply, but she quickly pressed them shut again, colour flooding her pale cheeks. James gave a polite bow and departed, feeling wretched for leaving her in such an emotional quandary.
Still, he did not have time to worry over Miss Vale—there was murder to solve, and they were so close now he could almost taste victory. How strange that his mind imagined victory might taste like Miss Bridges’ lips upon his own.
He fetched his horse from the stables and rode for Crabb Hall, where Mr Allen subjected his boots to a discreet inspection before allowing him through to the drawing room.
Inside, Lord and Lady Crabb were bent over their son Michael, who sat on the rug propped up by cushions, his little face scrunched in fierce concentration at the very act of sitting. His wide eyes never strayed far from his mama, lest she be needed to rescue him from his wobbles.
Something shifted in James’s chest. The domestic tableau stirred in him a yearning he had not expected. For the briefest moment he pictured Flora with such a child in her lap, smiling down with all the sweetness of her nature. A surge of tender pride rose in him—something that felt very like the expression on the viscount’s face as he watched his wife and son.
Crabb looked up as James entered, one brow arched.
“From your air of excitement, I gather you have news,” he remarked.
“I have,” James replied, his voice clipped with urgency. He wasted no time, recounting Miss Vale’s story—the lost fortune, the long-held grudge, the wolfsbane opportunity—and how it dovetailed with Henderson’s confession, though the lad had conveniently omitted his own possible role in events.
When he had finished, James concluded firmly, “It seems we have our murderer.”
Crabb let out a long, low whistle. “Well, well. What do you want to do from here, my friend?”
“I think we should confront Mrs Pinnock at once and press her for a confession,” James said, decisive as ever.
Crabb nodded, but before he could speak his wife interjected.
“Is it necessary for her to confess today?” Jane asked, her tone mild but her glance toward her husband anything but. “Mama has been so very excited about the assembly—I should hate to think anything might keep Captain Thorne from attending. Like, say, accompanying a prisoner to the cells in Stroud.”
Lord Crabb blanched, then turned an apologetic look toward James. “Perhaps we might hold off until morning?” he suggested meekly. “I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of the drag—”
He stopped himself at his wife’s warning look.
“—of my dear mother-in-law,” he finished. “She is very invested in your burgeoning relationship with Miss Bridges. Overly invested, some might say…”
The last was delivered as a low aside, though Lady Crabb caught it; her lips twitched with a suppressed smile.
